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by starraya



Series: the art of learning your lover [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, F/F, Mild Sexual Content, Strong Language, complete fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-31 16:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6478441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starraya/pseuds/starraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up next to Bridget Westfall was never going to feel anything but fucking amazing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how I managed to make it fluffier than the last one, but I did. Oops.

Waking up next to Bridget Westfall was never going to feel anything but fucking amazing. Even Franky's dreams had never come close to the heavenliness of the real thing. The smoothness of the sheets against her bare skin, the softness of the mattress under her back. Waking up in a bed that wasn't property of Wentworth Correctional Facility was always going to be a moment to savour, but this . . . this was something else entirely.

 

The morning light trickled through the curtains, basking the room in a gentle glow and illuminating here and there the columns of dust particles that danced in the air. The light caught the blonde in Bridget's hair beautifully Franky noted as she studied the sleeping face of the woman next to her, before reaching a new conclusion: Bridget looked fucking adorable asleep.

 

It had been a long time since Franky had had the leisure to sleep - in the most innocent sense - with someone throughout the night. Sleeping next to something was a whole different kind of intimacy to just sleeping _with_ someone. Fucking them.

 

Sometimes, new discoveries weren't facts or knowledge, they were moments like this. Moments that appeared separate from all the shit of the real world. From the chain-grey walls of Wentworth. Moments where everything appeared soft and blue and hazy in the ethereal light of morning. Moments that would be unbearably quiet, if not for the steady breathes coming from the woman beside her.

 

Still, the room was too calm for Franky's comfort. So calm it was unsettling. She was too used to the sounds of Wentworth: the click of the screws' shoe; the far-off hysterical cries from a doe-eyed new girl in another block or those of a junkie revelling in their latest fix; the slam of doors; the clank of gates being shut up for the night, locking the inmates in. She was too used to the sound of captivity. Franky was too used to having to sleep with one eye open to be able to surrender herself completely to this moment of tranquillity. Calm wasn't a word Franky Doyle knew well.

 

At Wentworth you had to be constantly on guard. You had to constantly predict the moves of the other women. Be three steps ahead of them. Calmness could not be taken for granted. Any minute there might be an unexpected cell toss. Calmness could not be trusted. When the women were quiet, trouble was simply waiting to erupt. Then there was the routine. The scheduled meal times. The work-shifts. The count. At Wentworth time was not your own. Nothing was your own.

 

Having even a moment, where she could luxuriate in the sense of freedom, like this felt strange.

 

Franky made to get up from the bed, to leave behind the warmth of the bed sheets. Even if they'd only just given her warmth, only just covered her sufficiently. One thing Franky had learnt about the hot girl that had whisked her away from prison yesterday: Bridget Westfall was a blanket-snatcher. Every turn Bridget had made in her sleep had seen another inch of blanket stolen from Franky's side. If Franky hadn't woken up sporadically in the night - restless in an unfamiliar bed - and clutched on to an end of the blanket, tugged it over her body, she was sure that she would have woken up next to a heavily cocooned Bridget Westfall. Would have woken up to find the blanket wrapped tight around the psychologist's small frame. The sight would have been too cute for Franky to be even slightly annoyed.

 

After moving to sit up on the edge of the bed, Franky let the blanket drop to her waist. She pushed her fringe back from her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face, before trying to blink out the sleep in her eyes. Franky turned her head to look back at Bridget, still asleep on her front, arms out and bent around a head that was turned to face Franky. A smile played on the law-student's lips. In the growing lightness of the room and from the angle she sat, Franky was able to discern a small constellation of freckles on the bare skin of Bridget's left shoulder-blade that she hadn't caught sight of the night before.

 

Franky wondered what other small, beautiful, previously hidden discoveries were to be made about the psychologist. What other little wonders she would uncover in the following days. Maybe some wouldn't be completely new discoveries, but realisations. Like how Franky had never consciously took in the sweet scent of Bridget's perfume, but found herself struck, at present, by how unmistakably familiar the scent was. How it filled the room.

 

Franky tilted her head to one side. Stretched out her arms. Breathed out.

 

It was a fucking cliché, but time appeared slower than it was. Stolen. Like that fleeting moment she and Bridget had shared in the illusory seclusion of the bookshelves of Wentworth library. How just tracing her fingertips over Bridget's lips, her face, her neck had seemed unreal. A dream.

 

Just like last night. When Franky had mapped out every curve of the older woman’s body with her fingertips, then her mouth. 

 

Freedom had never felt so good.

 

Franky remembered the day before when they were in Bridget's car, how, after Bridget had pulled up on the drive to her house and turned off the ignition, she had taken Franky’s hand in hers. Squeezed it gently. Smiled.

 

Bridget didn’t haven’t to say anything. There wasn’t any need. She knew. She knew the whirlwind of emotions must be feeling. Elation. Anticipation. Anxiety. Fear.

 

Fear of the unknown. Fear of everything. Fear of screwing it up all.

 

And whilst the older women couldn’t completely take that fear away, she could be there for the Franky. Franky hadn’t known at the time in the car, but she had needed that reassurance. Franky had never felt as safe as she did around Bridget. From the first time they had met Franky had flirted with her, pushed her, tried to play like she had with so many women before – even subconsciously Franky reckoned that she’d tried to push people away by pushing them too far. But Bridget hadn’t pushed back. The older woman had maintained her ground.

 

Even when Franky had told the psychologist about Meg Jackson, Bridget hadn’t told anyone. She had stayed on Franky’s side, and would have continued to, if the rumours of their relationship hadn’t got the psychologist fired. Franky would always remember the day of her parole hearing as a hell she’d never wish to repeat.

 

But she also remembered how Bridget’s face had lit up when Franky had entered the room. Like it always did. Although Bridget had promised she’d be there, people in Franky’s life rarely keep their promises. Rarely did they stay by her side.

 

To say she’d been surprised yesterday to see Bridget  standing outside waiting for her in the prison car-pack was an understatement. Bridget hadn’t returned to pick Franky up, because she hadn’t really left her. At least, Bridget hadn’t chosen to leave her. Hadn’t abandoned Franky. The only time Bridget had come near, was when she’d stopped their sessions, and of course, Franky soon discovered that hadn’t been Bridget running away. That had been her wanting to get closer to her. But not being able to.

 

Franky felt gratitude surge up inside her, and something else. It wasn’t love, not that, not just yet – at least, not love fully bloomed – but it was pretty damn close. Scarily so. Wonderfully so.

 

Actually, it was fucking terrifyingly so.

 

At that moment Franky made up her mind about what to do. She was going to make them breakfast. Make Bridget breakfast. It would have to probably be something simple. Franky wasn't sure what Bridget had in her fridge, but she thought she remembered seeing a cartoon of eggs when Bridget had retrieved the wine they had never got around to drinking the night before from there. Bridget had to like omelette, right?  

 

Just then Franky felt a pair arms slide loosely around her waist, preventing her from rising.

 

"Typical," Bridget said, her voice thick with sleep, before trailing a line of kisses up Franky's bare upper back, punctuating each kiss with a word. "I. Finally. Get. You. Where. I. Want. You. And-"

 

Franky cut Bridget off by turning her head around and hungrily capturing the older woman's lips with her own. Shortly afterwards, Bridget found herself flipped on her back, with Franky on top of her, straddling her waist.

 

"Why, Miss Westfall, I _beg_ to differ."

 

Bridget's tried to pull the younger woman down into a kiss.

 

"Not too fast. I was just going to make us breakfast."

 

"As much as I'm sure whatever you make will be absolutely, bloody delicious the thing is . . . right at this second, Franky, I'm not that hungry."

 

“Do you like omelette?”

 

“Yeah." Bridget shot Franky an inquisitive look.

 

“Because that was what I was going to make. Hang on you’re not one of those people that doesn’t eat eggs are you? Or meat and whatever?”

 

“Vegan? No. I’m not.”

 

“Good. Because they’re a pain in the arse to cook for.” Franky laughed. “You allergic to anything?”

 

"Food-wise. Peanuts,” Bridget said, before raising an eyebrow at the naked woman atop her, “You want to play 20 questions now?"

 

"You said you'd tell me anything I wanted to know," Franky countered. And besides, if one was to cook for their girlfriend, one needed to know these things.

 

"Yeah, I did, when we were both fully-clothed."

 

"And that's a problem how?"

 

"Fucking hell Franky. I had enough trouble trying to concentrate at Wentworth when we were in the same room together, let alone-"

 

"As delightful as that new piece of information is, I'm afraid I'm going to need you to answer my questions. You'll just have to concentrate that little bit harder. Now," Franky said, grinning widely before pressing her lips against Bridget's collarbone, "just when was your first time with a woman?"

 

As Franky proceeded to distract Bridget in the most brilliant ways, talking - and the ability to so - quickly went out the window. Franky would just have to make the older women tell her the answers to her questions another time, not that she minded. Not at all. There was more than one way to learn your lover. And Franky didn’t mind taking her time that morning.

 

Because there was one thing Franky did know, the only thing she needed to know right now.

 

Bridget's lips didn't just taste divine; they tasted like home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I didn't want to make it too soppy, but I feel that something like this, waking up outside out of prison, would be a big moment for Franky and I wanted to explore it. As well as that respect and trust in their relationship, and how Franky's come to feel some sense of security around Bridget. 
> 
> Plus, I have had that last line in my head for agggges. 
> 
> I do have other ideas I'd love to explore, but I'm going to try and go on a bit of a writing hiatus for a bit. I have exams coming up and I need to knuckle down (I know just as Wentworth returns.) 
> 
> So, I might write a small drabble here or there. More domestic fluff, probably. But at least, I hope pretty soon we'll get that for real May 10th. Long live Fridget!


End file.
